


Starting Point

by BananaWombat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amnesiac Bucky, Blindspot AU, Bucky has the Winter Soldier hair, Bucky is a John Doe, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve is with the FBI, Tattooed Bucky Barnes, background Sam Wilson/Natasha Romanov/Clint Barton, except Thor, maybe I'll put Thor in later somewhere, so are the rest of the Avengers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:08:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5562901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaWombat/pseuds/BananaWombat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve swallowed. He knew the observation window was one-way, but it felt like the man was staring straight at him. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”<br/>Fury spoke quietly into an earpiece, and one of the people in lab coats ushered the man to his feet and turned him around. He was wearing a hospital gown, sickly green. The technician gently untied the strings holding the gown together and pushed them apart, exposing the John Doe’s shoulders and neck.<br/>“Then why,” said Fury, “is your name tattooed on his back?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Times Square (prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> An edit I made for this AU: www.goddessofidiocy.tumblr.com/post/135973551035

It was Officer Lorraine that noticed the bag first. It was plain grey, a larger-than-average duffle bag with no distinctive characteristics apart from a square label facing the bag itself, apparently unmarked.

After several minutes spent inquiring in the crowd whether the bag belonged to someone nearby, the policewoman finally bent down, intending to read the tag and send it on its way to the NYPD lost and found.

When she turned the label over, she called the bomb squad.

**_CALL THE FBI._ **

Three words written in black block letters on a square of white card, and Times Square was cleared of civilians within thirty minutes. A lone figure dressed in cumbersome orange rubber waddled towards the bag, slowing when he got within five feet, finally setting down his toolbox and dropping to one padded knee.

Nobody had actually opened the bag yet, so to be fair, it may not have been a bomb. But despite this fact – which, he admitted later, provided little comfort – his hand trembled as he reached for the zipper.

He’d just brushed it with his fingertips when the bag moved.

“FUCK!”

“What?! What’s going on? What’s happening? Is it a bomb?”

“There’s something in there,” he screeched, and scooted backwards several feet, keeping to one knee as best he could. He fumbled for his gun, drawing it with both hands. “There’s something moving in there.”

The zipper began to move all by itself, drawing itself open in one smooth movement. The bomb squad member clicked the safety off, keeping the gun raised.

Something emerged. It was pale and oddly patterned and long, and it took him a good few seconds to realize it was an arm. It was followed by a head, and another arm - this one a strange silvery colour, painted with the same dark symbols as its twin - and then a torso.

A man stood from the bag on shaking legs, shielding his face with both hands from the glare of the helicopter lights.

“Hands on your head! On your knees!”

The unidentified man obeyed.

“Don’t move!”

And the man began to cry, huge, panicking sobs that only come from feeling completely lost.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blindspot is such a fitting AU you have no idea.  
> I was actually planning on having Bucky looking pre-war, but Jane's hair made me think of Bucky's so I just had to add it in. I'm still trying to decide whether or not to include his metal arm, as it would disrupt the tattoos but it's such a defining physical characteristic for him that I want to keep it in. If I do eventually decide to keep it I will go back and edit previous chapters to include it. Feel free to comment if you have a preference either way, and if you want me to include the arm any suggestions on what to do with the tattoos that would have been there.  
> I confess, I have not watched beyond episode five of Blindspot season one, so I'll have to watch the rest and then rewatch the others. Updates shouldn't be too few and far between, but they might be sporadic due to my frequent reluctance to actually write and the fact that I'll have to find time to watch/rewatch the show in-depth.  
> Anyway, character list:  
> Kurt Weller = Steve Rogers  
> Jane Doe = Bucky Barnes  
> Edgar Reade = Sam Wilson and Clint Barton  
> Tasha Zapata = Natasha Romanoff  
> Patterson = Tony Stark  
> Dr Borden = Bruce Banner  
> Bethany Mayfair = Nick Fury  
> Kurt's sister will actually be Steve's ex-wife Peggy (who he has remained very close friends with - she's currently staying at his house because she can't find an apartment), Kurt's sister's son will be Sharon (Peggy's niece who she has custody of), other characters will make guest appearances, and Alexander Pierce is Thomas Carter.


	2. John Doe

“Is it a dog?”

Steve ground his teeth. “It’s a baby.”

“I’m going to kill this shitbag,” Sam muttered under his breath, and Steve silently agreed.

The tip-off had been anonymous and incredibly useful. The tenant of the farmhouse had been keeping at least three or four women he’d bought from traffickers chained up in various rooms, and Steve could hear them breathing, hear their bonds clanking, hear their sniffles and their sobs. It made him want to personally fill the guy with bullet holes, and it seemed Sam felt exactly the same.

“On my mark,” Natasha said quietly, “three…two…..”

Clint was the one who ended up shooting the guy, getting him right in the thigh and then in the shoulder. Sam cuffed him, and Natasha and some others set about unlocking – or smashing apart – the women’s chains.

“Agent Rogers!”

“Ma’am?”

“You’re wanted.”

“By who?”

“Get your ass down here and I’ll tell you.”

Agent Hill was waiting in the pilot’s seat of a helicopter when Steve exited the farmhouse. He’d heard it arrive just minutes after Clint had shot the suspect, but he’d assumed it was for the transportation of the freed prisoners – but, as he walked towards the obnoxiously large chopper, he could see them being loaded into waiting ambulances.

“Come on, come on, while we’re young,” Hill grumbled.

“So……?”

“Fury.”

Steve swore. “Nick Fury - ?”

“It’s Director or sir to you, Agent,” she admonished, waiting for him to buckle in so that she could take off. Agent Hill had been military, like Steve and Sam, but rumour had it she’d been in some high-level special operations. Nobody had ever quite dared to ask for specifics. Sam swore it was because her hairstyle – a tight, stern black bun – intimidated him, along with her sharply-angled eyebrows.

“Why does he - ?”

“You’ll find out when we get there. And before you ask, we’re going to New York. Your team will be picked up by others later on.” She paused, then twisted round in her seat to look directly at him. “This is rather an interesting one, Rogers.”

***

“Fuuuuck, that is some nice ink.”

“Focus,” Bruce prompted gently.

Tony waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah.”

The man who had caused such a ruckus in Times Square was currently in Tony’s lab, stripped of the robe he’d been supplied with when travelling and once again completely naked. He was undergoing a full-body scan, wide-eyed yet quiet and blank-faced. Tony knew he was probably buzzing under the surface – being nervous to the point of calm was something he had experienced more than once, and Bruce was in that state almost constantly.

“Also,” Tony announced, “that is the raddest prosthetic I have ever seen in my entire life.”

“It’s certainly advanced,” Bruce conceded. The metal arm hung loosely at the man’s side, held slightly away from his body as if he didn’t want it too close to his naked skin. It was no wonder he was wary of it – to wake up with a bodily attachment you don’t remember acquiring? And one as obvious as that? Not to mention the fact that, after several attempts made by lab technicians, it wasn’t capable of detaching from his shoulder.

And that wasn’t even starting on the elaborate engraving in the metal plating, seemingly following the fashion of the ink across his natural skin – unconnected, finely made, and -

“New,” Tony said after several moments, and he couldn’t help sounding surprised. “All of the tatts. No more than a couple of weeks, maybe even days.”

“He’s completely covered in them.” Bruce took a step closer, peering through the glass to where the tattooed man was standing meekly in the middle of the enormous scanning machine. “His face is clean, but everywhere else – “

“They’re pretty sick,” Tony commented, and raised his hands in surrender when Bruce glared at him. “What? Cyborg turns up in Times Square in his birthday suit and appears to be a human canvas? That’s cool. I like mysteries.”

“I can tell,” Bruce said dryly. “Okay, scan’s done. Can someone please get him some clothes?”

***

“Agent Rogers.”

“Sir.” Steve resisted the urge to bow. It was a feeling everyone seemed to experience in the presence of Nicholas Fury, director of the FBI in its entirety. While technically the official headquarters were located in Washington DC, he spent the majority of his time at the New York branch, claiming he liked the employees there more. (“They don’t have self-important sticks up their asses” were the precise words he had used, but most people preferred to paraphrase when in polite company.)

“You’re probably wondering why I called you away from your operation.” Director Fury began to walk, and Steve kept pace without being asked.

“I am, yes.”

“We’ve found a John Doe,” Fury said simply.

Steve’s brows furrowed. “What does this have to do with me?” After a moment, he added, “sir.”

“He’s…………interesting.”

“That’s what Agent Hill said.”

“She was right.” He pushed open a door, and Steve was greeted with a wave and a “hey, Mr Rogers!”

“That joke got old a long time ago, Tony,” Steve said, and greeted Dr Banner with a handshake. “I’ve been told there’s a John Doe in custody?”

“Agent,” Fury said, and put a hand on Steve’s shoulder, steering him surprisingly gently to face the observation window. “Do you recognize that man?”

It took Steve a moment to understand what he was looking at. There were several people in the lab, most of them dressed in white coats and wearing plastic gloves. There was one lone figure sitting in the middle of it all, and Steve assumed Fury was talking about him alone.

Steve studied him. He was of medium height, pale and slightly sallow, with a strong jaw and defined cheekbones. He had chin-length dark hair and sharp grey eyes, and his lean frame was covered in what seemed like random – yet intricate – tattoos. There was a silver glint to one side of his body, although Steve couldn’t quite make out what it was.

Steve swallowed. He knew the observation window was one-way, but it felt like the man was staring straight at him. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

Fury spoke quietly into an earpiece, and one of the people in lab coats ushered the man to his feet and turned him around. He was wearing a hospital gown, sickly green. The technician gently untied the strings holding the gown together and pushed them apart, exposing the John Doe’s shoulders and neck.

“Then why,” said Fury, “is your name tattooed on his back?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Bucky is officially keeping his arm. I expect most of you are glad to hear that lmao.  
> I'm trying to stay on top of this fic by keeping at least one chapter written in advance before posting another. It seems to be working okay so far, but I'm at my aunt's right now and don't have as much time to write as usual. I should be back on track by Saturday or Sunday, at least.  
> Happy New Year, guys!  
> BONUS: This is what Jane's tattoo looks like in the show. Just imagine it says 'Steve Rogers FBI' for this story. - https://jmmnewaov2.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/blindspot-trailer-nbc-official-series-hd_20150922223655_3.jpg?w=670  
> By the way, this fic is not beta read. Any mistakes or inaccuracies are mine and I would be grateful for any corrections.


	3. Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of non-consensual body modification near the end of chapter (Bucky wondering whether or not he had actually volunteered for the tattoos or if someone had forced him)

The room (cream-coloured, plain save for four small cameras in each corner and a steel table with chairs) was just on the uncomfortable side of cool, and Steve considered offering the John Doe his blazer jacket to put over his shoulders. Said John Doe was wearing borrowed black sweatpants and a white vest, the vest a little too small and the sweatpants a little too large. The vest did nothing to hide his leanly muscled shoulders, his ink, or his eye-catching metallic arm.

Fury had decided to actually let Steve talk to the man after said man had scared the shit out of the small brunette with the English accent who worked the polygraph machine. He’d been irritated by the endless questions about his past, none of which he seemed to be able to answer. Finally, he’d torn the wires off, loudly demanding to speak to somebody in charge.

It was then, of course, that Fury had elected Steve as lead agent on John Doe.

“I’m Special Agent Steve Rogers. I’m the head agent on your case.”

“Do you know who I am yet?” The second Steve sat down, John Doe turned pleading eyes on him. “Please tell me you know what’s going on.”

“Unfortunately,” Steve said, setting his folder of printed photographs on the table, “no.”

The tattooed man let out a frustrated noise. “All of these tests and – “

“Your fingerprints have no match, nor does your DNA. Facial Recognition has nothing. We can’t trace the metal or make of your prosthetic back to any known locations or sources.” He pulled a single photo out from the folder and held it out, not even glancing at it. The image had already burned itself into his consciousness, probably forever. “We do, however, have this.”

John Doe took it immediately, examining it closely. He wrinkled his nose. “This is – is this one of the tattoos?”

“Yes. Do you recognize me?”

“Why would I – I don’t even recognize myself. How would I recognize you?”

“Because that’s _my_ name, and you have it written on _your_ back, along with the name of my employers. Dr Banner believes that if you encounter familiar stimuli, it might trigger a memory.” Steve shifted uncomfortably. “I know this is overwhelming for you, but please just – try?”

After a long moment, John Doe nodded. He sat forward in his seat as Steve manoeuvred his chair around the table to sit diagonally from him, no more than twelve inches between them. John raised his hands, then looked to Steve for confirmation. At Steve’s quiet “go ahead”, he gently put his hands on Steve’s face.

The fingers of his right hand were roughened, the kind of calluses that came from physical work and holding firearms. Steve tried to resist tensing at the idea of the man currently fondling his face holding a dangerous weapon, and, surprisingly, it wasn’t difficult. John’s touch was light, the sweeps of his fingers trailing and soft – even the hand that clicked and whirred and sighed like a small, smooth engine was gentle.

He had his hands on Steve no more than twenty seconds, before lowering them. Steve had to clear his throat before saying, “anything?”

John looked him directly in the eyes. “No.”

There were a few uncomfortable silent moments, Steve’s mind not quite connecting to what he was supposed to say next. Finally, John Doe said, in a subdued voice, “so what happens now?”

“What?”

“What happens? Where do I go? I have nowhere to stay, and no money, and – “

“We’ll set you up in a safe house,” Steve interrupted, finally making his brain function properly. “Near to headquarters, close enough to reach you if you need help. The fridge should be fully stocked.” John still looked unconvinced, so Steve – throwing professionalism to the wind – leaned forward and placed a hand tentatively on John’s cool, smooth, artificial forearm. “You’ll be fine. Okay?”

John nodded after a second, his jaw working. “Yeah. Okay.”

The safe house, once John had finally been cleared of medical problems and/or weapons that could be concealed on a naked body or inside a prosthetic, was a destination Steve was charged with driving him to (along with a plain car with a bodyguard inside).

“He’ll be out there for your protection,” Steve said, when he handed John the door key. “He won’t come inside unless you ask him to or something happens that endangers you.”

John, who had been walking down the entrance hall, turned to look at Steve again. His eyes were very, very clear – sharp as a razor, bright with intelligence and, for the moment, nerves. “What – what do I – “

“Eat something,” Steve said, moving his weight from foot to foot. He had his hands shoved in his trouser pockets, a move he made only when feeling distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m sure you’ll find something you like.”

“I don’t know what I like.” He looked like a deer in the headlights, lost again.

“Try something,” Steve said. “Try everything, even. Find out what you like. There’ll be something.”

When the agent finally left, he felt mildly relieved – but, at the same time, worried. Grey eyes and silver arm and brown hair and tattoos, those tattoos, so dark and so fresh –

Steve shook the thoughts out of his head and pressed down on the accelerator a little harder.

***

He stood in front of the mirror. It was medium-sized, with a gilded frame, with a few water spots on the lower right hand side. Slowly, silently, holding his breath, as if scared he might frighten something away – frighten himself away – he peeled the borrowed white vest from his body. The sweatpants came off next, then the socks, then, after a moment of hesitation, the boxer shorts.

He couldn’t quite refer to himself as John, not yet. It didn’t – it didn’t feel right. It felt oddly close, as if his true name was something similar to his temporary one, but it fit like his borrowed clothes did: not quite - but good enough for the time being in the opinion of the FBI.

He looked at himself in the mirror. It felt like looking at an alien. An alien that raised its hand when he did, blinked when he did. The arm didn’t seem as strange as the tattoos did, like he’d had it long enough to get used to it, to get used to moving it, seeing it, feeling it, using it –

But the tattoos.

He turned slowly on the spot, twisting his head to keep looking. They were _everywhere._ Utterly foreign, even to his subconscious, the instinctual part that knew, even if he didn’t, whether he’d encountered something before.

How did they get on him? If – if he hadn’t consented to these, who – someone had _violated_ him, marked him, branded him, all over, visible to anyone looking, who had –

Who –

Who –

He realized his cheeks were wet, and his ribs hurt. He curled over, trying to ease the ache, and the tears began to fall properly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm a little late, as you can see. I've written half of the chapter that comes after this, but it all seems to be going okay so far, so you won't have to wait too long. Again, this fic has no beta reader, and all mistakes are mine. Bucky is still being referred to as John/John Doe, but he will eventually be called James (or Bucky. We'll see how it turns out)  
> Also: it's been a while since I've watched the Blindspot pilot, so there may be inconsistencies between this and the show.  
> (And yes, the English polygraph worker is Jemma Simmons.)


	4. ZIP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for brief rape mention near beginning of chapter.

“Are you familiar with a drug named ZIP?”

Fury gave Bruce an unimpressed look.

“Zeta Interacting Protein.” Bruce turned to Tony, who was lounging in a wheeled chair, listening intently. “You might’ve come across it at some point.”

“It sounds kind of familiar,” Tony admitted. He pulled the little rubber stretchy toy – a green man, kind of grubby – to its limits, then pinged it back against his palm. “I don’t think I’ve ever used it myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I should certainly hope you’ve never used it _on_ yourself, at least,” Bruce muttered, then returned to speaking to the room at large. “It’s experimental, mainly used for PTSD sufferers – rape victims, army veterans, etcetera. In very small – tiny, really – amounts, it can erase selective memories.”

“So, you’ve found traces of it in our Mr Doe?” Nick Fury said, looking more interested now.

“Not traces.” Bruce swallowed. “He’s practically drowning in it. Chemically induced permanent amnesia, from what I can tell, but – I’ve never seen anything like this before. Ever. And when I say ‘I’, I mean the entirety of medical science.”

“Is there anything left at all?” Steve spoke up.

Bruce cleared his throat. “Well, his narrative memory is wiped out, but his procedural memory seems okay. He can walk, talk, understand the world, but the specifics are cloudy. For instance, he’ll know what music is, but he probably won’t recognize specific artists.”

“I have someone I can introduce AC/DC to,” Tony said brightly, and Natasha stamped on his foot.

“So he’ll never get his memories back,” Fury summarized.

“It’s not quite that simple. Because I’ve never encountered anything even similar to this, I can’t say anything for certain – like I said earlier, if something he comes across is deeply embedded or plays a significant role in his past life, it might trigger something.” Bruce sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Again, I’m not sure of anything with this case.”

“Alright.” Steve cleared his throat. “Thank you, Dr Banner.” He exited the office, drawing up short when his team – with other tag-alongs – met him as a crowd just outside the door.

Steve could feel Sam and Nat at his back, moving around to join the rest in facing him, and he was eternally grateful for them. He scanned the agents staring intently at him, some asking questions he couldn’t hear, their lips moving but the sound not registering.

Agent Steve Rogers was renowned in the New York FBI branch for being a people person, a strange label in the eyes of some. It was true that Steve could be prickly, as well as tense and borderline aggressive when in a bad mood, but he was also entirely selfless and well-liked among his friends.

His main gift, however, was putting together teams.

“Wilson and Romanoff, you’re with me,” he called out, and the buzzing group fell silent, anticipation building. It was no surprise, Steve thought vaguely. This was one of the most interesting cases they’d had in years. “You’ll be field operations, if we need you, as well as Barton and Odinson. Stark and Banner will be the brains on this case.” A chorus of disappointed groans went up from those not selected, and one girl with a dark ponytail and a purple bracelet actually stamped her foot. “The rest of you will be back-up, if we’re desperate.” They dispersed, and Steve turned to face his team.

These people were tried, tested, and trusted. He felt kind of proud, looking at them now. He still recalled Clint’s first day on the job, with a coffee stain down his front, eyes bright as he had declared himself “the best shot in the whole business”. Thor, who was even bigger and broader than Steve himself. Bruce, who had just now been dragged out of Fury’s office by Tony in time to hear his name being said. Tony himself, the most infuriating person to work with over coms. Natasha, looking faintly amused (her resting face), arms folded, tapping perfect fingernails against her elbows. And Sam, one of Steve’s favourite people on the planet, mirroring Natasha’s stance, watching Steve carefully.

Sam had already talked to Steve about the delicate nature of this case. “He has your name tattooed on his back,” Sam had said, looking Steve straight in the eye. “And he doesn’t remember how it happened. This could be some deep shit, Steve. Are you sure you want to get involved?” When Steve had insisted yes (when had he ever backed down from a challenge?), Sam had said, “this could get personal.” And he’d said it gently. Very, very gently.

Steve had actually considered, for a few moments. Then he had nodded. And Sam had said, “if we end up getting shot at, I expect you to offer yourself up as a human shield,” which had made Steve laugh, and then they had both ordered takeout and forgotten the whole thing.

Sort of forgotten. Not entirely.

Now, Steve lifted his chin. “Let’s try and squeeze some blood out of this stone.”

“Time to work for a living,” Tony muttered, and he sounded cheerful about it.

***

“I didn’t even dream last night. I was hoping I would, but – “

He tailed off. The short, quiet doctor was taking notes, flicking his gaze between John (that name still didn’t sit right) and his clipboard.

“I just – feel helpless.” John wriggled in his seat, unable to get comfortable. “Someone took my entire life away, and I can’t do anything about it. It’s horrible.”

The doctor nodded, coughed once, and gestured towards the two steaming cardboard cups in the middle of the table. “Tea or coffee?”

He blinked, startled. “Um – I don’t know – “

“That’s okay. Try them both.”

John was reminded of the blond Agent Rogers from the night before, but shook the thought from his head and leaned forward, taking one in each hand, sipping them in turn. After tasting both, he wrinkled his nose and set the one in his left hand back down. “That one tastes like grass trimmings.” He raised the one in his right hand. “I like this one better.”

“Well, there you go. One, you know what grass trimmings taste like. And two, you’re a coffee person.” The doctor sat back in his chair, looking pleased. “You’re not helpless, John. People are defined by their choices – you don’t remember yours, so now you get to make new ones, or rediscover your old, or both. Try things, and see what your body remembers. Even if nothing comes back, you can still find yourself.”

“Okay.” He ran a flesh finger over one of the engravings in his metal hand, and repeated, in a quieter tone, “okay.”

“I think we’re done for today.” The doctor got up, and John followed his lead, hesitantly shaking the other man’s hand. “I’ll be on call if you remember anything or want to talk, alright? And call me Bruce.”

When John got out of the room (the same interrogation-type room he’d been in on the first day), his eyes immediately spotted a blond head above the rest. Agent Rogers was facing away from him, gathered with several other agents and FBI employees, all looking intently at a set of screens that displayed –

John registered Bruce moving away from him across the room, and followed. The screens, he could see as he drew closer, were showcasing his tattoos. Photographs presumably taken during the full-body scan, from every angle, on every part of his flesh. They’d had to wrap the arm (which, it turned out, couldn’t be easily taken off) in something deflecting, then do a smaller scan just for the metal and its own patterns.

“They’re not connected,” someone was saying. A man with a goatee and dark hair, nibbling on a pen when he wasn’t speaking. “At least, I haven’t found anything connected yet. They’re – “

“ – on me?” They all started, and Rogers’ head whipped round particularly fast. John stepped closer to the computers, not even bothering to apologize for surprising them. “These are all on my body, right?”

“Yeah.” Goatee had recovered the quickest, and darted forward to fiddle with a mouse and keyboard. A moment later, one of the screens flickered and changed to show a line of Chinese writing. “That one’s behind your left ear, and I’m working on getting it translated – “

The words flowed without thinking. He just opened his mouth, and spoke.

It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Even Goatee had shut up, looking at John with bug eyes.

“You can speak Chinese?” Agent Rogers said, after several stunned moments.

“I - I didn’t know I could,” John stammered. He peered at the tattoo onscreen. “It’s a dialect called – Wenzhounese? And that’s a – that’s an address. And a date.” He made a noise of surprise. “Today’s date.”

“Devil’s Language.” This voice was deeper even than Rogers’, and came from the tall, intimidating man with the eyepatch. “Wenzhounese is nicknamed the Devil’s Language, because outsiders find it so difficult to understand.” His one eye was trained on John with a kind of carefully detached interest. “I’ve heard about it before, but not much.” He raised his voice, speaking to Goatee and Bruce. “Track down that address, I want it checked as soon as possible.”

“That was right under our noses,” Rogers muttered, and the man beside him (John had heard him referred to as Sam once before) said, “behind his left ear, actually.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, I'm late. I'm so, so late. Thank you all for sticking with me (and to that commenter for providing that swift kick up the butt I needed to get this chapter finished).   
> Okay, so in the next chapter things are going to get difficult. When I first watched Blindspot, the way the antagonists in the first episode were handled made me profoundly uncomfortable. While I still like the show in general, it made me feel so uneasy that I wasn't comfortable using it in this fic.   
> I'll probably end up cutting out large parts of the episode, possibly the entire middle and end action sequences (which will actually help shorten the fic and make it more manageable for me to write and upload). It's the only way I feel okay with writing it, and I don't have any other ideas, so......yeah. Sorry about that, I guess.

**Author's Note:**

> Character list:  
> Kurt Weller = Steve Rogers  
> Jane Doe = Bucky Barnes  
> Edgar Reade = Sam Wilson and Clint Barton  
> Tasha Zapata = Natasha Romanoff  
> Patterson = Tony Stark  
> Dr Borden = Bruce Banner  
> Bethany Mayfair = Nick Fury  
> Thomas Carter = Alexander Pierce  
> Kurt's sister = Peggy Carter  
> Kurt's nephew = Sharon Carter  
> Other Marvel characters will probably make cameos or more-than-cameos later on.


End file.
